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Ignoring the TURN OFF YOUR CELL PHONE rule in the ice-cold examining room where I had been sitting for 45 minutes in a plunging cotton gown that ties up the back, I called my friend.

“Where are you?” she said. “I can barely hear you. Is this the Verizon phone or the Alltel?”

I was at the urgent care. The same one I was at for three hours the day before with my son. Now it was my turn. I was waiting for my strep test.

“I don’t think you can use a cell phone there,” my friend said. “And why do you need a STRESS test?”

I DON’T need a stress test. I said STREP test. Actually, I heard about this brownbag lunch you could go to for tips on managing stress. They were giving out free chair massages.

“Ooh,” she said. “Sounds nice.”

Well, I couldn’t go. Work was insane. Plus, Kevin and I were negotiating a mortgage modification.

“The perfect Valentine getaway.”

To top it off, I take my banged up jalopy of a station wagon for an oil change, and they tell me I need a rear brake job, alignment and a tune-up. Since when do cars need tune-ups?

“Bet you don’t go back there.”

Don’t get me started. Do you ever just feel like that Peter Finch character in “Network,” when he leans out the window and shouts that he’s mad as hell and can’t take it anymore...?

“Was Holly Hunter in that?”

No, Faye Dunaway.

“Right. What are you saying?”

I’m saying, every other house in town seems to have at least one adult out of work. Even Mexican guest workers are going home to Mexico. But these same families’ phones, those that aren’t disconnected, ring off the hook from Citibank, whoever, for past due credit card payments.

“Amen! PREACH  it, sister!”

I say to you: They’re the vultures who got fat off this whole mess to begin with. And now they ­— not us — get bailed out, like a spoiled rich kid that Daddy would never allow to spend a single night in that scary jail. But whose house do you think gets put up as collateral with the bondsman? Daddy’s? Hell, no! Ours!

“It’s good you’re at the urgent care. How long do these test results take?”

They said 10 minutes. But Sunday morning — never a pretty picture at this place —  I waited two hours with Mickey, before they told us that his test came back positive.

“Poor KID. You know things are bad when it gets to a third-grader. But kids pick up on things. What do they do for them at that age?”

The doctor offered bubble-gum flavor amoxicillin. But I said, heck with that, just give him a shot of penicillin in the old gluteus maximus.

“Have you lost your mind?”

It always worked when we were kids. Besides, I hate this whole bubble-gum idea. Last Halloween, they wouldn’t eat their trick-or-treats. They said they tasted like medicine.

“But who gives penicillin shots? Is this the Jonas Salk urgent care?”

Actually, they keep it in this dorm room-size fridge, so it was sort of cold and thick going in. Mickey howled. He says I owe him $20, and if I write about it, he’s calling his lawyer.

“Mickey has a lawyer?”

Well, his best friend’s mother.

“What does the father do?”

I think he’s a prosecutor.

“Now, there’s a fun playdate.”

I’m just glad he has a friend. Even if it does mean billable hours.

“So are they going to give you a penicillin shot in the rear end, too?”

Search me. I asked the doctor to just go ahead and get one out of the fridge because it would make my son happy. The doctor looked at me weird and said to wait for the test results.

“Well, I’m no doctor. But you certainly sound stressed out to me.”

Thanks for understanding.

“Hey, that’s what friends are for.”

Contact Lorraine Ahearn at 373-7334 or lorraine.ahearn@news-record.com